


A Little Bit Like Goldilocks, A Lot Like That Woody Allen Movie

by tzzzz



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Bad Sex, Closeted Character, Coming Out, F/M, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:06:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzzzz/pseuds/tzzzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sam used to know each other and Rodney wants to know how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Bit Like Goldilocks, A Lot Like That Woody Allen Movie

Today is a blistering 107 out in the desert of Nevada, but it's nothing compared to what the troops are dealing with in the deserts of Iraq and the war Samantha Carter is never going to see, no matter how long it goes on.   
  
The squadron of blue jumpsuits standing at stiff parade rest on the tarmac might look like a shimmering mirage in this heat, but then Lt. Colonel Kelly wouldn't be standing in front of them in his casuals and his ridiculous Texan aviator sunglasses, announcing, "Men." It's accurate too - thirty-two dicks with bodies attached just barely stifling the catcall they're smart enough to save for when their commanding officer's not around.  
  
"Men," Kelly says, puffing himself up like he's going to launch his very own Roswell weather balloon, "I'd like to introduce Lieutenant Samantha Carter." He pauses, waiting for the wolf whistle that doesn't come. These are the Air Forces' best and brightest after all, and if they're headed for General one day, they'd better know how to keep up appearances. "The Lieutenant here is a PhD candidate down at Caltech, fast-tracked in a special sector of our R&D programs. She's here to build us better planes, folks, and for that, she needs to get and insider's look on how we fly them. Treat her with the courtesy and respect you'd show to any fellow officer, and let the lady learn the ropes."   
  
To an outsider, Colonel Kelly just delivered a polished welcome speech, but Sam knows by now how to read between the lines. Bad enough the annual NASA/USAF research symposium and the prep for it cut off the first two weeks of flight school, but Kelly just told the men to treat her nicely, but not actually let her do anything.  
  
The colonel drones on for a while in his slow Texas twang, ignoring the sweat gathering beneath his and everyone else's armpits, and then he dismisses them.  
  
The boys head back to their business. They're learning something about basic maintenance today, working in small groups on planes. She can see them elbowing each other out of the corner of her eye. Nobody wants to be the first to approach. It was like this her first day of ROTC too.  
  
So Sam is almost blindsided when a figure strides up to her, all lanky limbs and a hundred watt cheesy smile. She's sure he thinks himself charming, but the man (and his barely regulation length mop of dark hair) ends up looking more like a deranged elf.   
  
"John Sheppard," he extends her a firm handshake.  
  
"Samantha Carter. Though I guess you already know that."  
  
John shrugs. "Wasn't a guy here who didn't." Sam's not sure if he knows whether or not he's being an asshole, but he keeps smiling, seeming to slouch without anything around to lean on.  
  
"You know, I'm not just here for you to stare at. I'm here to learn how to fly just like the rest of you."  
  
John grins. "Some of us already know how to fly. But we're not all geniuses, so what'd'ya say you help me out?" He gestures to a sleek F-4 Phantom behind him. "I noticed a little drag on the right wing last time I took her up, but the mechanic says everything's fine. How about we show him up?"  
  
Sam smirks in challenge. "That's assuming he's wrong."  
  
"Oh, he's wrong," John replies, grinning back. "Hey, what's your favorite plane?"  
  
"Hasn't been built yet," Sam gives him a secretive smile.  
  
John raises his eyebrows in an almost comical way. "See, I knew you'd be interesting. Tell me about it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Today is a blistering 107 in the desert of Nevada and Cameron Mitchell is a good for nothing lemon wielding asshole. Rodney McKay glares at him from beneath a stolen baseball cap and two layers of SPF 100 cocoa butter. "You have absolutely no idea how much I hate you," he says.  
  
"I think I actually might," Mitchell responds with a grin.  
  
"I don't see why you even need me here. Don't you have your own genius?"  
  
"Who happens to be heading a mission in another galaxy."  
  
"A mission I'm a vital part of!"  
  
"Yes, well, you're already here, and since you've told a few too many people a few too many times that you're the foremost expert in pretty much everything, you're coming with me to tell the brass about this thing before we unleash it on the remainder of the Ori fleet."  
  
Rodney frowns. He's used to being hassled by grunts and having his words twisted against him, but at least Sheppard  _understands_  what it is he's harassing Rodney into doing. And he's not exactly an eyesore either. But, Mitchell does have a point. Rodney crosses his arms over his chest, "Well, I  _am_  a genius."  
  
He can practically hear Cameron rolling his eyes.   
  
"So, how's it going, serving under those two?"  
  
"Fine. Why wouldn't it be fine? Colonel Carter is beautiful and probably the second most brilliant mind in two galaxies and Sheppard is, Sheppard."  
  
"Just, you know, they were pretty big tricksters back in the day. Shep and the Doc were practically a legend by the time I got out here to train. Apparently some enlisted guy tried to grab her ass and they reassembled half a helicopter in his bedroom. You can ask Colonel Bentley about it when we get back to base. He almost died laughing when he found out they were serving together out in another galaxy."  
  
Rodney's mouth is hanging open in a way he knows can't possibly be attractive, but he doesn't care. "Wait, you're saying that Sheppard and Colonel Carter  _knew_  each other before Atlantis?"  
  
"Yeah. You mean Shep never mentioned it? I thought you guys were supposed to be friends." Mitchell can't seem to keep the smug tone out of his voice, or his eyes on the goddamned road - not that there's anything to run into out here.  
  
"We are friends," but why didn't he  _say_  anything. Not even the first times when Rodney was waxing poetic about Samantha Carter's brilliance and her hair and the sexual tension between them. "But why wouldn't he ..."  
  
Mitchell shrugs. "Maybe he didn't want you to pester him about setting you two up. Shep strikes me as a man who likes to avoid awkward situations."  
  
Well, that much is certainly true. But surely Sheppard could have covered. He could have said that they hadn't spoken in years. Unless. Sheppard might be the king of beating around the bush and simple omission, but he's not one to lie outright to his friends. They  _had_  kept in contact, then. "So she talks about him?"  
  
"Not really. When we were planning to visit Atlantis she did, and when he was up for promotion to Lieutenant Colonel I'm pretty sure she threw her two cents in, but they hadn't seen each other in years at that point."  
  
Then the only other reason Rodney can think of is - he snaps his fingers. "He slept with her." Sheppard is still ridiculously attractive at forty, Rodney can only imagine him as a twenty-some flyboy, cocky but smart enough to give as good as he got. And if they were already friends, he can't see how even Samantha Carter could resist.   
  
Mitchell practically snorts. "With Carter? Sorry to burst your bubble, McKay, but Sam's a good girl. Back in those days it was a lot harder for women in the service than it is now, around the time of Tailhook. She wouldn't have risked it."  
  
But Sheppard would have. Rodney has never seen him pass up a piece of tail, hooks or no, that's come his way. Except for maybe recently. In fact with the exception of an incredibly hot space pirate who seemed to have abused him more than anything, Rodney's pretty sure that John hasn't engaged in any Kirkian behavior since Carter took command. His eyes widen. Plus there was the whole ‘fruit basket incident.’ "But not anymore, right? I mean, they're sending women to die on the frontlines now, aren't they?"  
  
Mitchell laughs. "Fraternization regs were still in place last I checked."  
  
"But Atlantis is an exception, surely. I mean, who's going to turn them in? They're probably making it in every storage closet off the central tower." Sheppard has seemed a little jumpy as of late. "Oh my god. What if they've done it on her desk? Or the conference room? I've had to sit there! Do you have any idea how unsanitary that is?"  
  
Mitchell is practically bent over laughing at this point. "God, you are one paranoid bastard, aren't you, McKay? I promise you, Sam and Sheppard aren't screwing like bunnies all over Atlantis."  
  
"But how can you be sure? You're not even in the same galaxy with them! You haven't felt the sexual tension!"  
  
Mitchell rolls his eyes. "Shep can create sexual tension with a cardboard box.  _Trust me,_  you're imagining things. Now, it looks like we're here."  
  
"But ..." Rodney's protests die on his lips the second he gets a look at the big red and white painted target in the middle of the desert and the clump of IOA dignitaries and Air Force higher ups sweating it out in dress uniforms beneath a wholly inadequate tent. "What do these  _morons_  think they're doing?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Why're you so damned curious about Shep anyway?" Lieutenant Bentley gripes over the radio. He's doing the preflight check for the third time while they're waiting for their instructor to come back from the bathroom.   
  
Sam shrugs, even though she's sure he isn't paying enough attention to notice the gesture. "He's being kind of," she can't think of a good word to describe it, "friendly."  
  
Bentley chuckles dryly, compulsively running his hands over altimeter and checking for lord knows what. "He's a friendly guy. Doesn't hurt that you're a knockout, either." Not that he takes the time to meet her eyes as he says it. Sam's glad they were paired together. If Bentley's going to harass anything, it's going to be the poor joystick, not Sam.  
  
"So he wants in my pants." She grits her teeth, wondering if all of this is just in her head, and she's letting all of the stupid expressions and the words of her drill instructor get to her. Not every man can be out to get her.  
  
"He's a guy," Bentley replies. "But I don't think Shep's trying to pull a fast one, if that's what you mean. Poor guy. He knows he's attractive, I'm sure, just never sees it coming until he's down half a bottle of tequila and tied to the bed."  
  
Sam raises her eyebrows. "That happened?"  
  
Bentley winces. "Weekend leave in Tijuana when we were doing cross-service training together out a Pendleton."  
  
"What else?"  
  
Bentley shrugs. "Nobody knows too much about him. Father's a Colonel stationed in Washington, but the boy can fly, so he's not here because of Daddy. Um, he likes football?"  
  
"Thanks," Sam replies, noticing their instructor sauntering back out of the hangar. The thing is, she  _likes_  Sheppard, despite his shit-eating grin and the way he juts his hips, seeming to say, 'I know you find me attractive' with every movement. And maybe under different circumstances she'd give in to the little flutter she can't help but feel in her belly every time he smiles at her, but other than her assigned copilot, he's the only one who's offered her anything close to friendship in this place. Sheppard's just friendly. She's not sure he understands how valuable his offer of friendship really is to her.  
  
"Hey, why aren't you still checking your instruments?" Bentley complains, looking up at her from beneath a sunburn and bleached blonde eyebrows, blue eyes ridiculously earnest.  
  
"I checked them twice already, Benz. Only one of us is an obsessive compulsive, remember?"  
  
"Oh, yeah, that," he flashes her a grin, before going back to checking if his throttle squeaks.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Why're you so damned curious about Shep and the Doc anyway?" Colonel Bentley asks, perturbed. "Shouldn't you be calibrating sensors or something? Making sure you don't blow up half the top brass in the Stargate program, maybe?"  
  
Rodney waves his concerns away. "Please. Everything's already set up onboard the Daedalus. They've tested the weapon both in space and on several uninhabited planets. Do you really think  _I'd_  be here if I didn't have complete confidence in our adapted Asgard tech?"  
  
"I guess not." Bentley still looks nervous. As the military consultant on the F-302 program, he's been more involved in this whole thing than Rodney had, so he really must be a moron.  
  
"So, Sheppard and Carter?" Rodney takes a stealthy look over his shoulder, checking to see that Mitchell is well occupied caucusing with O'Neill by the buffet table.   
  
"What do you want to know? How they made life a living hell for Colonel Kelly? Or the 50k they picked up in Vegas that one time before nearly getting arrested for counting cards? Or the incident with the Walrus?"  
  
Walrus? "No, no, were they sleeping together?" Rodney's not sure exactly why it matters so much to him. There's the obvious fact that someone he'd like to think he's close to lied to him, but there's something else. The image of the perfectly attractive sex they'd have together sticks in his mind, simmering green with his jealousy.   
  
Bentley shrugs. "Probably. Though I don't see what business it is of yours. It's a little late for a court martial."  
  
"I," Rodney stutters. He's entitled to know, of that much he's sure. "They're," Sheppard's his best friend. "We," Carter's his commanding officer and possibly the love of his life. "I have to work with them!"  
  
"Well, I'm sure they're not doing it anymore, if they ever were. She's his CO."  
  
Rodney wants to tear his hair out. "Why does everyone in the military seem to think that will stop anyone?!"  
  
"You've never seen Leavenworth, have you, Dr. McKay? Besides ..." Bentley continues, just as there's a bright flash, and the ground where the target used to be has simply disappeared.  
  
Rodney's on the radio yelling at Novak before the shock even has time to fade off Bentley's face.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Hey," John says, squeezing Sam's shoulder. "It's going to get better."  
  
Sam knows that. She knows in another month she'll be back where she belongs, with a bunch of geeks and a whiteboard of equations instead of a mass of flyboys and their stupid sexist jokes. If it's not because she's a woman, than it's because she's a geek and they think that if she's smart enough to actually understand these machines then she couldn't possibly  _fly_  them. She can't believe that she was actually looking forward to this.  
  
And now she's crying, pressing her tears into her eyes and trying to ignore the way John is shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another. "Sorry," she forces out between sobs. "I'm not normally like this. It's just -- I thought he was being  _nice_!"  
  
"He?" John's stance has shifted, dark and deadly and completely different than his usual indifferent sprawl, the way he sounds when talking about golf or working out math puzzles. His normally shining eyes are blown black and there's an edge about him that she'd never in a million years have expected.  
  
"No, it's no big deal, John."  
  
He grabs her arm then, and they both look down at it before he realizes he's crossed a line and backs off. "Who? What did he do to you?"  
  
Sam shrugs. "Grabbed me. I slapped him."  
  
"I'll more than slap him!"  
  
That, more than anything stops her tears. She's not some fainting damsel, in need of a knight in shining armor to come riding in and save her. She takes a step back from him, tightening her jaw and bracing for a fight. "I can take care of myself."  
  
"And I don't doubt that. But what else were you going to do? Report him and watch Kelly laugh it off?" That's actually exactly what she was planning on, but like hell she'll let him know it.  
  
"You don't know that!"  
  
John snorts. "Kelly's a good friend of my father's. I heard them talking once. He doesn't think women should be in the service at all, let alone in the air."  
  
"Well, then at least he'll go easy on you if you get caught beating one of the ground crew up! Do you think I really want you to risk your future in this program just because some guy couldn't keep his hands to himself?"  
  
"Then we won't touch him," John replies, a familiar sly grin transforming his features back into the devious boy trapped in a man's body she's used to.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Hey," John says, "It's going to get better."  
  
Rodney would feel bad spying, except totally not. It's a public balcony, after all, and he's got his hand on her shoulder, looking up at the sky like star-crossed lovers taking a long walk on the beach or something. Rodney's sure their little tryst is going to make him develop an ulcer any second now.   
  
"I know," Colonel Carter replies, turning to look up at him. They're standing side by side, not close enough to kiss but still a few inches more than what Rodney would consider strictly professional (not that he an Sheppard aren't in each other's space most of the time, but that's different. They're  _friends_. It's part of manly, male bonding.). "I'm not the one who needs convincing."  
  
John grins. It's one of his special grins, charming and indulgent and a little dorky. Rodney thought that it was one generally reserved for him. "I keep forgetting, you've been doing this stuff for almost fifteen years. A fleet of robots capable of rebuilding both themselves and their ships at amazing speeds, set out to kill every human in this galaxy and starve the space vampires out, that's a walk in the park compared to everything else you've seen."  
  
"No. It's still scary. I guess I've just been in so many seemingly hopeless situations that I've learned the difference between hopeless and seemingly hopeless."  
  
"Hey, I'm supposed to be the optimist." Rodney's not sure about that. John believes that his harebrained schemes are going to work and Rodney's going to pull a miracle out of his ass, sure. But he's not enough of an optimist to think that they'll come up with a solution that doesn't involve him strapping himself to a nuke and taking a stab in the dark.  
  
"Well, next to McKay, it's not a difficult role to play." Hey! Somebody's got to prepare for the worst, otherwise when the worst comes, they'll be terminally unprepared.  
  
"Well, he wouldn't be McKay if he didn't think we were constantly teetering on the precipice of death. It's almost cute, when it's not a huge pain in the ass."  
  
Sam turns then, some kind of realization transforming her features. "John?"  
  
She must see something in his face, shadowed by the moonlight for Rodney. "Really?" She punches him in the arm. "Of all the people ..."  
  
"Hey!" Sheppard squeaks, rubbing his arm before punching her back. Before it devolves into one of those little physically battles that couples seem to find so cute, Rodney slips away. He doesn't need to see them kiss and make up. Not at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
John takes a long swing, the golf club slicing through the air with a definitive swish. The stars are bright above them and for a second, the ball seems to blend in among them before settling back down to earth somewhere outside the last barbed wire fence surrounding the base.   
  
"Was that a good one?" Sam asks from where she's lying on the sun-warmed wing of one of the derelict old bombers they keep out here for show and spare parts.  
  
"They're all good ones," John remarks with a grin, jumping almost clumsily down to lie beside her.  
  
"Sure they are."  
  
"Hey, I've been doing this since I was a kid. You aren't even watching."  
  
"I'm looking at the stars," she replies, shivering a little in the cool desert air.  
  
John puts his arm around her almost casually and she leans into his warmth. "You do that a lot." It's not a question.  
  
"I grew up an Air Force brat, but that's not why I wanted this," she sighs, trying not to be melodramatic, especially around John, who seems to think emotions come wrapped in thorns or flesh-eating maggots or something.   
  
"You wanted to join the space program."  
  
"I'm a few formalities away from a PhD in astrophysics and they've got me flying fighter jets."  
  
"Nobody ever said the military was supposed to make sense. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's the opposite."  
  
"It doesn't bother you?"  
  
"Not as long as I get to fly. I could have gone to CalTech, too."  
  
"We would have been classmates."  
  
"Yeah, but male to female ratio, no football team. Stanford was better."  
  
Sam rolls her eyes. "It's all just fun and games for you, isn't it, John?"  
  
"Pretty much."  
  
"You plan on growing up anytime soon?" In truth, Sam has trouble imagining it.  
  
"Not if I can help it." But he will, she’s sure. There’s a war on, and there'lll be a war after that. She'll probably never see combat, but pilots as good as John get sent where they do the most damage, and that isn't a pretty place.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
John takes a long swing, his form as perfect as the CG Tiger Woods in their computer game. The motion just accents the perfect line of his body, the lithe, tightly coiled muscles and the thine frame. Rodney is instantly jealous, even though he knows that golf is just as much a game of calculating angles and motion than it is of physical prowess. No wonder Carter’s falling all over herself for him.  
  
"Rodney," Sheppard turns with a bright smile. "I'd heard you were back. I expected to see you sooner, buddy." Sure he did. He might've if he wasn't busy boning the woman of Rodney's dreams.  
  
"You asshole."  
  
"Hey! No, 'I'm glad to be back, Colonel. Nice to see you'?"  
  
Rodney rolls his eyes. "Have you  _met_  me? But that's neither here nor there. Why the hell didn't you tell me you and 'the Doc' used to be BFFs?"  
  
"Okay, who are you and how have you gotten Rodney to sound like a fourteen year old girl?"  
  
"I was being sarcastic, you moron!" Rodney can feel the anger building, now that he can see that Sheppard's not even taking this seriously. "You  _lied_."  
  
"I didn't." Sheppard holds up his hands in an attempt to be placating, but Rodney just glares right back at him. "I never told you we didn't know each other! Look, it was a long time ago and it didn't seem relevant."  
  
"Relevant?  _Relevant?!_  How many times have I told you that Samantha Carter is my dream woman?"  
  
Sheppard rolls his eyes. "A couple hundred times too many."  
  
"And you didn't think any helpful dating tips might have been appreciated?"  
  
"We were stranded in another galaxy at the time! What were you going to do with anything I told you? Get jealous of me? Add it to your jerk off routine?"  
  
"I ... No!" Well, maybe. "It would have been nice to know. It won't kill you to let down a little of the man in black with the mysterious past and rakish hair thing for a just a second. I mean, that's what friends do, isn't it? Talk about the things that make them who they are?"  
  
"It didn't make me who I am. It didn't mean anything. We were friends for a few months training, I didn't see her again for fifteen years and now she's my boss. I don't know what kind of men she likes or whether or not she returns your  _insane_ crush, though my guess would be a big fat no. Jesus, Rodney, it's none of your goddamned business."  
  
But Sheppard is going red at the tips of his ridiculously pointy ears, even when he's using his, 'Tell that to the twenty-odd hive ships I've blown up' face. "I knew it!" Rodney crows. "Mitchell was oh-so-wrong and I knew it! You slept with her!"  
  
Sheppard looks around, slightly panicked. "I ... Shit, McKay, will you keep your fucking voice down?! I know it's a difficult concept for you to understand, but sometimes a smile is just a smile and a friend is just a friend."  
  
"But you haven't denied it!"  
  
Sheppard tightens his jaw, the way he does when he's telling the crazy-fucking-aliens that he does not negotiate with terrorists. "This conversation is over."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"John? Are you okay?" Sam finally gives in and asks. John's been in a strange mood since the weekend and Sam can't quite figure out why. His flying is picture perfect as usual, but everything else seems off.  
  
"I'm fine," he grunts, shifting his peas around his plate like a recalcitrant child.  
  
"Fine is why you've got bags under you eyes?"  
  
"So I've had a little insomnia."  
  
"And insomnia causes limping?"  
  
John's eyes dart up so fast she nearly gets whiplash, but at least he's looking at her, for the first time this week. The gaze isn't pretty, though. It's crazed and almost dangerous, like a scared animal. "Nothing to worry about."  
  
"Did you get into a fight?" She hopes not. But, then again, though he's been avoiding everyone, John seems to especially steer clear of Lulu (his hulking Swedish-American copilot) these days. And John's had nothing bad to say about the other man, so she can't imagine what they would fight over. Except maybe Sam's honor.  
  
"No."  
  
"John, if Lulu said anything ..."  
  
"What makes you think Lieutenant Loof has anything to do with it?"  
  
"The fact that you just called him by his full name and rank without laughing, for one. That and the way you two manage to not be within five feet of each other despite sharing a cockpit. What happened?"  
  
"Nothing, Sam. I'm fine. Lulu and I had a little misunderstanding. It'll blow over."  
  
"You don't have to protect ..."  
  
"This has nothing to do with you. Just drop it." His smile seems tremulous, but genuine.  
  
Sam bites her lip. A little misunderstanding didn't explain the limp. But then again, boys would be boys, for all she knows it was something stupid and embarrassing, like John falling off the wing of their plane and bruising his tailbone. Again.  
  
"Okay. But you know that if you want to talk. About anything ..."  
  
"Yeah. Thanks, Sam." He seems to appreciate the offer even though John Sheppard is the last person she’d ever expect to ask for help from anyone.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Sheppard?! Are you alright?" Rodney babbles, trying to make out the two shapes huddled at the back of the cave lit only by firelight. "Colonel Carter? Oh my god, are you dead? I knew it. One stupid harvest festival too many and your stupid suicidal streak and falling into freezing cold rivers and other ridiculously attractive colonels and ..."  
  
That's when Rodney's mind goes blank, because, beneath the slick metallic shimmer of the emergency blanket, he can see two sets of pale shoulders and enough chest hair and cleavage for an Angelina Jolie movie. Sheppard's cheeks are rosy and feverish, his hair a mess as usual, but dry (thank god). Bruises creep down his shoulder, almost passing for shadows in the soft flicker of the fire. He exhales in a deep sigh, tickling Colonel Carter's hair. She shifts, frown easing as she snuggles closer to Sheppard. The entire scene is breathtakingly intimate, and even though Rodney knows that this is standard procedure, probably described to the last detail in whatever Air Force field manual these two have drilled into their very souls, but he can't help the disgusted feeling of envy curling deep in his stomach.  
  
They shouldn't be allowed this. It's against the regulations, for one. And also, why do they get to do this, with each other of all people? If it's against the rules, then they should make themselves available for other people, who would appreciate them and worship the ground they walk on, instead of staying complacently in the pool of attractive Air Force colonels.  
  
"Sir?" Lorne asks, kneeling down and gently patting Sheppard's cheek.   
  
One of the field medics, who's name Rodney can never remember, is checking Colonel Carter, though the huge bruise forming on her forehead might make that difficult.  
  
Lorne goes to shake Sheppard a little, causing him to startle with a yelp, grabbing for his left arm and bracing it to his chest.  
  
"Sorry, Sir," Lorne practically whispers.  
  
"Damn right you should be sorry!" Rodney shouts, glad for any distraction from the vulnerable skin of Sheppard's upper arms (and his farmer's tan) and the way the emergency blanket crackles over Carter's breasts. "Any idiot can see that he's bruised all over! Poor man probably has internal bleeding. And now Major Pokes-a-lot has just made it worse!"  
  
"Ro'ney?" Sheppard asks, opening pain-glazed hazel eyes.  
  
Rodney pushes Lorne unceremoniously out of the way and kneels, pressing a hand up to Sheppard's forehead and feeling the fever he was hoping was a figment of his imagination.  
  
"Feels good," Sheppard whispers, leaning into the touch. "Hands're cold."  
  
"No, you're hot."  
  
"Thanks," Sheppard smiles, a lazy grin that Rodney does NOT find the least bit endearing.  
  
The corpsman has managed to somewhat rouse Colonel Carter, but she's still clinging to Sheppard like her life depends on it, which it probably has sometime in the past three hours it took them to find the pair. "We're looking at least a grade two concussion," the medic announces. "Let me check her for other injuries and then, Ronon, if you wouldn't mind carrying her back."  
  
Ronon nods, doing his usual stoic warrior thing, with maybe a good bit of worry thrown in.  
  
"No other serious injuries," Sheppard adds, still looking feverish, but slightly more alert. "She's been in and out, mostly out, since I dragged us ashore."  
  
"What about you, Sir?" the corpsman asks. "Hit your head?"  
  
"No. Bruises. I think maybe a broken collarbone."  
  
Rodney winces in sympathy, watching as the medic pulls back the blanket, and even though it's a quick flash, Rodney can see that Carter is completely naked under there, probably Sheppard too, and though previously he would have sworn that kind of knowledge would go straight to his dick, all it’s doing is settling a deep dread somewhere within him, because no matter what the manual says, Sheppard wouldn't presume to get naked with his very female CO unless he'd been there and done that before.  
  
The soldiers take it all in stride, of course, pulling out spare sets of clothes and emergency blankets seemingly out of nowhere and discretely wrapping Carter up. The silver lining of this whole horrible thing is that now Rodney will be able to tease Lorne about how well his clothes seem tailored for a woman.  
  
"Thanks," Sheppard whispers as Rodney helps zip Ramirez's jacket over the arm now bound to his chest with a sling. He lets Rodney help him to his feet, wrapping his good arm around Rodney's waist and leaning in until his head is practically resting on Rodney's shoulder.   
  
Rodney just stares straight ahead where Ronon is easily carrying a now-clothed Colonel Carter.   
  
"You're a liar," he whispers under his breath.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The days are long and empty here, studying for the written part of their training. It's all basic aerodynamics to Sam, so she spends the days reviewing journal articles and fantasizing. It's such a typical girl thing to do, even though Sam prides herself in being anything but a typical girl, and there's a part of her that hates herself for doing it at all.  
  
But she feels closer to John than she has to any man she's ever known. He's kind, if somewhat awkward, intelligent, genteel in his own way, while managing to still make her feel like an equal. And she can't deny that he's attractive, with those laughing hazel eyes and easy saunter. It's strange, but she's gone from hoping that he'd be the kind of man who'd treat her like just one of the guys to imagining the kinds of children they could have together, how they'd arrange their tours of duty around each other, what kind of dress she'd wear at their wedding. But, above all, this is the kind of man she could imagine herself growing old with and it warms her heart to think about it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The days in Atlantis are long and the lab noticeably empty. Not that Rodney blames Zelenka and the rest of the department, because he knows that he's in a real mood. They think it's concern about the two colonels resting in the infirmary, but they couldn't be more wrong.   
  
He can't get the image of them out of his mind. They're curled naked together under that blanket, as familiar as old lovers. Her breasts (probably even more warm and perky than in his hallucination) are pressed up against the soft hairs of Sheppard's chest. He's got an arm around her and it's just a small shift of their bodies to bring her hand to his thigh, caressing slowly toward the good-sized cock Rodney may or may not have scoped out in the showers. She's scraping her nails lightly over the soft flesh there, running through his pubic hair to his cock. It's flushed red like his cheeks as she strokes it, slow and steady with a slight twist on the end, the same way Rodney's used to jerking off. Her skin is soft and milky white in stark contrast to the rough calluses of his hands.   
  
He looks at her with a tender intensity that Rodney knows he's seen before. Maybe it's the same wrecked look he saw on Sheppard's face when he said, "I can't," or when he stood over Rodney's deathbed. And it's not fair that she gets that look, or that she accepts it with a warm smile the way that Rodney's never been able to do and even though he's half hard imagining it, he stands and storms out of the lab ... walking right into, "Sheppard?"  
  
"Ow," Sheppard gasps, cradling his bad arm to his chest.   
  
"Sorry, sorry," Rodney says, reaching out trying to find something he can do to help. "Does it hurt?"  
  
Sheppard glares.  
  
"Should I call the infirmary? Oh, god, I'm really sorry. I didn't see you."  
  
"It's okay, Rodney," Sheppard forces out, straightening.  
  
"Here, maybe you should sit down."  
  
"I'm fine," Sheppard says, taking Rodney's offer of a lab stool anyway.  
  
"How is a broken collarbone and a near case of hypothermia fine?"  
  
Sheppard smiles ruefully. "We're alive. I count that as a win. Um, Rodney, I hate to say this but ..." He trails off, looking down at where he's fiddling with the straps on his sling.   
  
"Say what?" Rodney asks, his anger from earlier returning with a flash of frustration.  
  
Sheppard takes a deep breath.  
  
"Oh my god, are you dying? Please tell me you're not dying. I mean with the suicide missions and the Wraith feeding and everything else I don't think I can stand another ..."  
  
"Jesus, Rodney, I'm not dying. I was just going to say that I think we need to talk." He winces.  
  
"Sounds like you'd rather you were dying."  
  
"Yeah, well," John huffs. "If I thought you were capable of getting over this  _thing_  you seem to be having, then we wouldn't have to."  
  
"Thing?! What thing? There is no thing!"  
  
John frowns skeptically.   
  
"Fine. Maybe a little thing. Tiny. Nothing to worry about."  
  
" _Rod_ ney."  
  
"Okay, so um, you and Colonel Carter ..."  
  
Sheppard sighs, rubbing his forehead as though warding off a headache. "Yes, Rodney. We slept together. It was a long time ago and it didn't mean anything. Are you happy now?"  
  
No. He's not happy. It's one thing to imagine it happening, the same way it's okay to imagine having a threesome with Samantha Carter and Buffy the Vampire slayer, and another to know that it actually happened and having to live up to that. "No, I'm not happy. How could you?"  
  
"Jeeze, Rodney, you need me to teach you the birds and the bees now?"  
  
"Very funny, Colonel. I mean - well, I understand how you could. Colonel Carter is a very attractive woman. But why wouldn't you tell me?"  
  
"Because I knew you'd over-react like this! It didn't mean anything to me and it didn't mean anything to her and it sure as hell shouldn't mean anything to you. You've got a girlfriend, Rodney," he seems almost sad about it, ducking his head. "And I hate to break it to you, but your chances with Sam are pretty much equal to the Brooke Shields single-handedly defeating the Wraith. Why be jealous? What's the point?"  
  
A heavy silence descends on them seemingly out of nowhere. It's a good question. Rodney shrugs. "No one ever said jealousy was supposed to be logical. To tell you the truth, I know that Colonel Carter and I would never work out. Even in alternate universes when we do manage to get together, we end up divorced."  
  
John smiles. It's his bashful, little boy smile, and Rodney's just not good enough at reading people to figure out the meaning of that.  
  
"What? You like the idea that there's not universe in which a beautiful woman can seem to stand me?" And that's the crux of it, really. That Sheppard, by virtue of being Sheppard, can get whomever he wants, whether or not it's a space bimbo or the woman who should be having Rodney's genius-babies and it never means anything to him. It's just another beautiful woman in a long line of beautiful women and it's just not fair.  
  
"No, Rodney. You're not Mr. Universe, but you're funny and brave and you don’t need me to tell you that you're smart. And you're attractive."  
  
"Really?"  
  
Sheppard gives a half shrug. "Don’t let this go to your head, but at least I think so." He squeezes Rodney's shoulder, his grip intimate and commanding and free of its usual awkwardness. "You'll find someone."  
  
But Rodney doesn't want just someone who appreciates him. That's why his relationship with Katie has always been doomed. He needs someone who can meet him as an equal, and so far the only two people whoever had the possibility of doing that are too busy doing each other to notice him. Unless ... "Wait! Did you just say that you find me attractive?"  
  
"Yes." Sheppard, for once in his life, seems almost sheepish.   
  
"In the way a friend finds another friend attractive?"  
  
Now Sheppard -no, John- has gone from scared sheep to deer in the headlights, staring straight ahead, blank faced.   
  
One of them has to make the first move, and it might as well be Rodney, considering how much he's already embarrassed himself today. "Because I wouldn't be exactly adverse to that. I mean, I never thought about it before," except for all the times he pictured John and Carter together, and somehow always managed to focus on him rather than his supposed dream woman. "But we're good together. You know, we bicker, save each other's lives, you put up with my jealousy and my other somewhat obvious character faults and I put up with your hair and your bad taste in movies. And though I've only given a blowjob one and a half times, both with very little sleep and a lot of caffeine involved, I'm sure that I could figure it out." It takes Rodney a few seconds to realize that he's been babbling, and another few to try (and fail) to decipher the odd look on John's face. "So, am I completely out of line here? And may I add, please don't punch me. I'm only really somewhat theoretically homosexual."  
  
John laughs then, his strange shy chuckle instead of the braying guffaw that always seems so out of place. "It depends, Rodney. Were you jealous of me for sleeping with Sam or jealous of Sam for sleeping with me?"  
  
Rodney knows the right answer (the one that will lead to him getting laid, at least) and he knows that John deserves better. "Honestly, a little of both. But there's a difference between a crush and someone, um -- someone I really care about. Not that I don't care about Colonel Carter, too. Obviously, she's still a valuable intellectual asset and ..."  
  
"Rodney?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Just shut up and kiss me."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Her first time with John is not at all how Sam expected. They're in Las Vegas, first of all, in a large suit at the Bellagio. Sam never thought she'd enjoy Vegas and its glitzy lights and over-the-top theatrics, but there's a carefree charm about the place, as though what happens here really will be captured in the frantic energy of it, so wound up in the spirit of the town that it'll fade from significance in everyday life, untraceable without the bright lights of the Strip to illuminate it.  
  
"50,000 dollars," Sam snorts, collapsing down onto the suite's couch with a giggle. She hadn't imagined that they'd be drunk, either, but this thing between them has been long in coming, and even though she's felt the familiar flutter of anticipation ever since John stumbled over to the front desk and asked for a matrimonial suite, a part of her is wondering if they should hold back until they're sober.  
  
But then she turns to where John's grinning, his shirt half unbuttoned and his hair messier than she thought the regs made possible. He collapses next to her, grabbing a hold of her thigh on the way down. "I can't believe it."  
  
She pinches him. "You should believe it. You were counting cards."  
  
"So were you!" he laughs.  
  
"Was not!" She shouts, hitting him with a pillow.  
  
"Oh, now it's on!" They squirm around on the couch and the floor drunkenly, training kicking in (if a little slowly) to make it an interesting match.  
  
Sam's on her back, with John holding her wrists over her head before her mind wobbles slowly into place. He's panting above her, and not just from the exertion. Far away, beneath a haze of alcohol, her body is electrified with want. She shifts just slightly, spreading her legs until he settles between them.  
  
He looks young all of a sudden, but predatory, leaning down to claim her mouth in a sloppy but fierce kiss. Sam moans into his mouth, pushing up against him until he relents and rolls over to the side, letting her nip at the five o'clock shadow forming along his jaw, tracing her hands through his chest hair to feel the wild beat of his heart beneath. She goes to straddle him, but loses her balance halfway, her knee crushing down on his groin.  
  
"Ow! Jesus!"  
  
"Oh, god, sorry. Did I get you?  
  
"No, I'll be fine," John forces out, but relents when she attacks the fly of his jeans, wanting to make up for her mistake  
  
He's gone soft when she pulls his pants off (and she doesn't blame him), so she takes him into her mouth, careful of teeth. He groans at the suction, hands running roughly through her hair.  
  
She sucks harder, tasting the bitter tang of precum on her lips, but something about the way he's guiding her with his hand bothers her. The whole thing feels somehow demeaning, like he doesn't trust her to do it herself, or maybe that he thinks he's _owed_  this. She pulls off, wincing at the popping sound of his cock sliding out of her mouth.   
  
"Let's take this into the bedroom," she says, trying to sound sexy, even though it comes out a little to nasal, her eyes watering from the concentration of trying not to gag on him.  
  
"Sure," he replies, stumbling drunkenly after her, only to collapse down on top of her when she pulls off her clothes and lands on the puffy white comforter on the bed.   
  
His kisses are still a little too aggressive, and the stench of alcohol is now overwhelming. She nips at his lips, at his jaw and his collarbone, hands skimming over every inch of him she can find. He's burning like a furnace, but his touches on her skin are tentative and he kisses with his eyes closed. She wants him to touch her everywhere. She wants the mother of all hickeys, for him to claim her and mark her and make her his own, but he's content just to kiss, hands moving with a singular purpose to her clit, flicking and stroking almost as sloppily as he kisses - far too hard and almost painfully.  
  
She pulls his hand off, vowing to herself that she'll train him another time. "I want you in me," she says, even though she knows it sounds corny and just plain wrong on her lips.  
  
He nods, but stops suddenly. "Condom?"  
  
"I'm on the pill," she says. A little voice at the back of her head tells her that this is possibly reckless, but it's  _John_. She trusts him.  
  
He nods, kissing her firmly, before looking down at his cock, guiding it with what seems like an inordinate amount of concentration to her opening.   
  
She moans as he enters her. His skin is burning, and she loves the feeling of his flesh filling her up, flirting with that spot deep inside that makes all her muscles clench and yearn and tremble, but just as she's getting there, he slides out, slick with her juices but not yet there.  
  
He pulls her over onto her stomach, so he can enter her from behind, but after only a few thrusts, he's slipping out of there too. "Shit!" he curses, looking down at his softening dick, like it's betrayed him. She supposes it has. "I'm sorry."  
  
"It's okay," she says, even though she's almost aching for him now, close, but not close enough.   
  
"Maybe if you," he grins shyly. "Maybe if you used your mouth?"  
  
She nods, loosening her jaw before leaning back down over him. She can taste her own juices on him, and though it turns her on, it's not enough until he reaches down, teasing her slit with a long finger. He's hardening again, but slowly, and her jaw is aching. She tries using her hand too, but it's taking too long, and she's so focused on him that his finger just feels rough in her, more an intrusion than anything else.  
  
"Fuck, I've had too much." He says about the alcohol, but when her finger slips and brushes against his hole, well, those gasps don't lie.  
  
She barely has time to contemplate it before he's bearing down, her finger slipping within that first ring of tight muscle. After that, it doesn't take long to bring him off. He's asleep and snoring soon afterwards, but Sam still hasn't cum.  
  
Even though he's just cum from her finger up his ass, she feels embarrassed masturbating with him asleep next to her, so she retreats to the bathroom, finishing herself off sitting on the sink before brushing her teeth and falling into bed next to him. She slides beneath the covers, even though he's passed out on top.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Rodney's first time with John is not at all how he expected it. Not that he expected it. But while idly thinking about John and his space bimbos of the week, Rodney had always imagined that John would be an intense, excitable lover, one of those guys who's always rolling around and getting you tangled in the sheets. He'd be athletic and enthusiastic and go as fast and as recklessly as he flies.  
  
Granted, the man did just break his collarbone a few days ago, and is trapped in a sling. So, this probably doesn't preclude ridiculously athletic sex in the future, but even John's kisses aren't fast and messy and rough. He kisses Rodney softly, the barest whisper of lips interspersed with delicate nips. He licks into Rodney's mouth too, but even that faint intrusion seems feathery and surreal. Rodney feels delicate, like he's the one with broken bones and still-fading bruises.  
  
Rodney leans forward, claiming more of John's mouth. They're standing just inside the door of John's room, with Rodney leaning back against the wall and John standing between his legs. Rodney wants to pull John to him, so they can feel every inch of skin touching skin, breathing each other's air and feeling each other's heat. But he has to settle for kneading John's firm ass and stroking his hands up under his t-shirt. John's skin is smooth and his hair feels silky and gel-free when Rodney runs his hands through it.  
  
"God, Rodney," John whispers against his mouth, leaning his forehead against Rodney's in the Athosian embrace. "You have no idea how much I wanted this."  
  
"Really?" Rodney asks, because John had Samantha Carter. He's had so many and probably could have kept all of them. But he's choosing to be here with Rodney instead.  
  
"Really."  
  
Rodney hums contentedly against his skin, reaching down to undo John's pants. "I'm going to leave the shirt on. I don't want to jar your arm."  
  
John nods distractedly, trying to pull Rodney closer, his good hand rubbing at Rodney's nape, caressing the suddenly sensitive flesh of his arms, and gently massaging the bulge at the front of Rodney's pants.  
  
"Wow. John, that feels amazing." He's not lying. He doesn't even have his pants off yet, and this is still somehow far beyond any other sexual experience that he's had. There's something about the pleasure-drugged look in John's eyes, or maybe the way touches Rodney, like  _he's_  the lucky one, scoring with this amazing man who's way out of his league, not the other way around.   
  
"You like it, huh?" John grins, laughing when he can't seem to get Rodney's fly open one-handed. "God, aren't you lucky, having sex with a cripple?"  
  
Rodney snorts into John's neck, where he's been reverently kissing. "Hmm."  
  
"It'll be better," John promises.  
  
"If it gets much better, my brain might possibly explode," Rodney mumbles, undoing his own fly and shucking his pants while he's at it. He's so hard he wants to cry, but every moment of pleasure thrills through him like thunder and he never wants it to end.  
  
"Can't have that. Who'd save the city then?" John asks, punctuating it with a kiss to the tip of Rodney's nose. He's quickly distracted by Rodney's erection though. They both look down at it, bobbing happily next to John's own proud penis. "Nice," John says, poking at it with his good hand.  
  
"Yes, yes, it's alive, now, please ..."  
  
John grins, wickedly, "Please what?" He gives it a light, teasing stroke. "This?" Rodney's knees nearly give out. "Or maybe this?" he grips it firmer this time, adding a quick flick of his wrist until Rodney gasps. "Or how about this? He massages the head with his thumb, leaning in for another kiss.  
  
"God, you're going to kill me."  
  
"Won't do that. I need you to fuck me first."  
  
Rodney's knees do give for a second at that, his cock jerking in John's hand. "Okay, if you're going to keep saying things like that, then we need to get to the bed."  
  
"Bed sounds good," John replies, kissing Rodney once more before moving them across the room to his finally human-sized bed (thanks to Ronon of all people).  
  
Rodney has never contemplated sticking his dick anywhere near another man's ass, but gripping John's between his hands, it's suddenly all he can think of, by far overwhelming any thoughts of Samantha Carter. "God, I want that. I want to be inside you. Even though I'm sure it's horribly unsanitary, I want to."  
  
John laughs, gesturing to his arm. "It'll be a while before you even have to think about that."  
  
"Oh, I'm going to think about it," Rodney replies, trying to guide John into some position that will keep the pressure off his healing collarbone. They finally settle with John flat on his back, Rodney bracing himself above him. It's awkward, but he really doesn't care. In fact, he stops for a second to look John in the eye. "Would you mind if I gave you a somewhat inexperience blowjob?"  
  
"I'm a guy, Rodney. What do you think?"  
  
"Point," Rodney says. "You won't be mad if I mess up?"  
  
"As long as you don't bite my dick off, I'll be fine."  
  
"Thanks for the encouragement," Rodney grumbles halfheartedly, rucking up John's t-shirt to the bottom of the sling, and then kissing down the line of hair on his belly until he finds the enthusiastic erection at the end of it. He eyes it for a second. John's pretty average, maybe a little narrow, and slightly curved to the left. Rodney's not exactly a connoisseur of dick, but he decides that he likes John's. It's not too big and not too small. In fact, it's just right. He laughs.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Relax, Sheppard, I'm not disparaging your manhood. In fact, I was just thinking a little too much like Goldilocks."  
  
"Just right?" John asks, hopefully.  
  
"Just right," Rodney replies, leaning in to give it a peck.  
  
The flesh, though swollen and hot with passion, is surprisingly smooth. Actually, Rodney's not sure why that's surprising, because his own dick certainly isn't rough. He supposes he expects it to feel more alien against his lips, wrong somehow. But it's amazingly, perfectly right. He sucks for a while, enjoying Sheppard's moans and the encouraging hand running through his hair. Rodney's actually getting harder from this, enjoying the taste of it, and the feel of it brushing up against his lips as he licks and sucks and kisses in no particular pattern. "God, I think I'm in love with your cock," he blurts out.  
  
"Yeah?" John asks, panting from the pleasure.  
  
Then Rodney thinks about it. How he's not just turned on by a dick (he wasn't those other one and a half times), but by the fact that it's John's dick, John's moans, John's pleasure. All this time obsessing over Samantha Carter and what John had and had not done with her was really just an obsession with John. It didn't matter what other men she'd been with, just that she'd had John and he'd had her and she had  _this_  and was stupid enough to throw it away. "Actually, I think I might be a little in love with you, too," he adds.  
  
John gulps. "Um ... ditto?"  
  
Rodney rolls his eyes. Only John can manage a ditto for probably the most important romantic epiphany of Rodney's life.  
  
"Hey," John pulls at his hair. "Come up here so I can kiss you."  
  
Rodney complies, of course, letting John use his good arm to stroke him a little bit more. This kiss  _is_  dirty and fast and passionate, with John's hand coming up to stroke along Rodney's jawline. He moans, half desperate and half frustrated. "Goddamnit, if I didn't have this stupid sling." He winces when he tries to push himself up and closer.  
  
"It's okay," Rodney says, because this is already better than he could possibly have imagined. "Really, it's okay. Let me take care of you." And he supposes that's the thing that he never would have had with Samantha Carter. He can't in a million years imagine her letting him take care of her like this. In fact, it was the strong almost superhuman confidence that she projected that attracted him to her in the first place (not to mention the hair). John isn't perfect, by any means. He's emotionally retarded and stubborn and hopelessly dorky, but Rodney wouldn't have him any other way.  
  
John's flushed and humming with tension, clearly struggling not to buck and writhe at Rodney's ministrations. "Come on," he whispers. "God, you're amazing," which of course prompts Rodney to try and deep throat him.  
  
A second later, when he's gagging and coughing, John manages to push himself up to a sitting position, rubbing Rodney's back. "Hey, it's okay."  
  
"I'm sorry," Rodney blurts out, embarrassed.  
  
But John just grins, brushing Rodney's lips with his thumb. "Hey, nobody expects you to get it right the first time."  
  
"I'm sure you did."  
  
"Well, some guy was holding my jaw and pretty much fucking my face, so it was sort of sink or swim."  
  
"I'm sorry," Rodney says, trying to imagine a young John, on his knees in a darkened alley somewhere. He aches thinking of that image even more than he did picturing John and Colonel Carter.   
  
John half shrugs. "It's cool. It doesn't matter anymore."  
  
They're sitting there, both now only half hard. "Yes it does," Rodney suddenly feels fierce, like he could breathe smoke. "It matters because nobody ever should have done that to you. You deserve better. A lot better."  
  
John smiles, mysterious and seductive as an Arabian prince. Even now, as faint lines of pain peek out from behind his handsome features.   
  
"Are you okay," Rodney asks. "Should we really be doing this?" He's proud of his own restraint, when he wants nothing more that to just slam himself up against John, unleashing a well of suddenly discovered passion.   
  
"Keller never said I couldn't."  
  
"But it hurts?"  
  
John leans forward with another electrifying kiss. "I want this."  
  
They shift around a bit, finally settling with John on his back, Rodney leaning above him in a sixty-nine. It's pretty awkward, and Rodney's biceps are going to hate him for it in the morning, and though the whole dick in his mouth thing takes a lot more concentration than Rodney'd like to devote to it, feeling John's wide lips on his own straining flesh, it's by far the best sex he's ever had.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sam jolts awake. She's warm, curled up in a thick comforter and momentarily disoriented. It all comes back in a moment, though, leaving her feeling out of place, like she's underwater and the artfully decorated walls of this suite are nothing more than a mirage. She snakes out a hand to find that John's not sleeping there beside her. It's six in the morning, and her head is pounding, so she curls up into a ball and falls back to sleep. She can find him later.  
  
The next time she wakes, it's around eleven and John is still nowhere to be seen. She's still wearing just her panties (grey, military issue) beneath the sheets, so she stumbles into the bathroom, groping for the mouthwash and a robe that she pulls tight around her like a shield. Beyond the throbbing of her head, she can just make out the sounds of the TV in the background.  
  
John is sitting on the couch, what looks like all of room service's breakfast menu heating on a cart in front of him. USC and Stanford are on ESPN and John is watching them avidly. "Hey," he says, not quite meeting her eyes.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Um, I wasn't sure what you liked," he gestures to the cart.  
  
Sam finds herself suddenly laughing. Only John Sheppard would order the entire menu because he has no other idea how to make up for a night of spectacularly awful sex.  
  
"So," she states matter of factly. "I think we need to talk."  
  
John winces. He still looks adorable in a rumpled USAF tee and sweatpants, hair pleasantly mused and features almost pouting with guilt. And she knows that not everyone gets it right on the first time, especially not with that much liquor involved. They could still make something out of this. He could still put in for a position testing the planes they have her working on over at Area 51. He's a good enough pilot that they'd accept him. Even if he gets deployed over to Iraq, the war is over, and the American presence won't last long. They could make it work.   
  
The question is, do they want to? She could call it a mistake, a night of drunken passion, even though she knows that's a lie. They're good together, just not great. "I like you a lot," she blurts out, because that's the lowest common denominator of truth she can find. "Probably more than I should."  
  
John's face goes white, and he's fidgeting with a nervous energy that she's never seen in his usual laid-back sprawl.  
  
"But," she doesn't want to say, 'But you're terrible in bed and it's just not worth it,' so instead she says, "it's hard enough for me as it is. And even though in a few days it won't be breaking the frat regs, I'm not sure I can handle a relationship on top of the work they plan to have me doing. You'll make it too easy for me not to try and fit in."  
  
John practically sags with relief, and though Sam's happy that she obviously made the right decision, she is a little indignant that he thinks the possibility of being with her would be such a burden. "It wasn't  _that_  bad, was it?" she asks.  
  
John takes a deep breath, looking up at her from beneath ridiculously pretty lashes and blurts, "I think I might be gay."  
  
It all makes sense, of course, like a part of her already knew, and she's touched that he'd trust her enough to let her know when the admission could land him in a world of trouble. So she steps forward and hugs him, running her hands through his hair and kissing him chastely on the lips. They spend the rest of the day watching football and ordering room service and she falls asleep with her head in his lap. They graduate training a few days later and though she often wonders whatever became of John Sheppard, the next time she sees him isn't until he's stepping through the Stargate, like he's born to it. Watching him in the City of the Ancients, she knows that this life fits him better than the two of them ever did.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Rodney jolts awake. He's warm, curled up in the blankets, and somebody has set the Ancient thermostat to higher than he's used to. He blinks, momentarily confused, before it all comes flooding back. He's just had incredibly strange sex with his best friend. Strange, but good. Speaking of which, he stretches a hand out, momentarily afraid that John's left him in the middle of the night and he has a lifetime of awkward staff meetings and offworld missions to look forward to, but then he rolls over and John is right there. He's shifted away during the night, no doubt so he can lie on his back and keep one of them from jostling his injured arm during the night. He looks peaceful in his sleep, snoring lightly.  
  
Rodney reaches out, unable to resist running his fingers through John's out of control bedhead. John smiles in his sleep, shifting towards Rodney's hand until he moves his shoulder wrong and his eyes dart open. "Hey," he smiles as bright as the sunlight sleeping in the stained glass window.  
  
"So you and Colonel Carter?"  
  
John laughs, levering himself carefully up to kiss Rodney sweetly on the lips. "Would you feel better if I told you that there's a gaping black hole in my soul from when she left and no other lovers have ever measured up to our one torrid night of passion?"  
  
Rodney laughs then, too, leaning further into the kiss.  
  
"Though I bet if you tried really hard, you could make me forget her."  
  
"How long do you think that'd take?"  
  
"I don't know, years. Decades. We might even have to keep trying for the rest of our lives."  
  
"Hey, maybe if you asked, she wouldn't be opposed to a ..."  
  
"Not on your life," John replies. "Just me an you."  
  
Not too many people, not too few, not settling, and not putting anyone up on a pedestal either. In other words, just right.


End file.
